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I’m starting to think the universe does not want me to run a 5k. I’ve been trying to train for one since about six months after Danny was born. I would put him in the jogging stroller, motivated by his cooing and his angry jabbering when I would stop. But I got off my schedule, and I didn’t finish. I’ve tried several more times in the intervening years, but something always came up.

This past Saturday, I was almost done with Week 3 of the 8 week program. I was pleasantly surprised with how well it was going. I was mentally surveying some upcoming 5ks, debating what I might be ready for in time. Even if I had to walk half the course, I wanted to do one. I was confident, I was happy, I was asking for trouble.

I had Benny with me. He went one way. I went the other. I tripped over the leash and landed – face first – in the street. Thankfully I had my phone with me and I was able to call Ken to come get me. He took one look at me and said, “Well, which hospital would you like to go to?”

Spent six hours just waiting to be seen. Spent twelve hours in hospital total. And this is how I look today, two days later.

That’s ok, I didn’t need that hand. Or my face.

I wish I could say this is an uncommon occurrence for me. But I get injured more often, and more randomly, than anyone I know. I got permanent knee damage in college by tripping (again, face first) over the sidewalk. I broke my wrist ice skating when Danny stopped suddenly and I couldn’t stop in time. I electrocuted myself picking up a severed lawn mower cord. I am a mess.

So I’m back at the doctor’s office today. My left hand is still not working right, and the fourth finger is still swollen and grayish. The x rays said nothing is broken, but it sure feels like it.